


White is the Color

by sohydrated



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Erotic haircuts, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Or Is It?, Pining, Scent Kink, Shame, geralt being oblivious as usual, regis being self-hating and repressed as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohydrated/pseuds/sohydrated
Summary: Smell must trigger memories, he thought, because the moment he embraced Geralt, inhaled his scent, his mind spilled forth with memories. Smiles, touches, moments too short to be replayed as often as he did--a million tiny fragments rushing in like an ocean surge.The sharpness of silver and steel. The bite of first frost. The warmth and alluring musk of a man worked hard. Geralt.Geralt.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 38
Kudos: 150





	White is the Color

**Author's Note:**

> This was SUPPOSED to be for the rarepair server's August prompt "dirty laundry" but, uh, it's October so...Enjoy?
> 
> Thank you to Bawdybean for the beta and help whipping this into shape, and thank you to Lynge for the title idea. Title from Nina Simone's _Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair ___

In humans, smell is the sense most closely related to memory. Regis had seen enough people comforted simply by having something that smelled of home while he treated them to know that. And, while sharing little with human biology, he supposed it made sense that it would be the same for vampires. They did after all have a superior sense of smell, and significantly better memory recall. 

Smell must trigger memories, he thought, because the moment he embraced Geralt, inhaled his scent, his mind spilled forth with memories. Smiles, touches, moments too short to be replayed as often as he did--a million tiny fragments rushing in like an ocean surge. 

The sharpness of silver and steel. The bite of first frost. The warmth and alluring musk of a man worked hard. Geralt.  _ Geralt. _

\--

This was sweeter than a memory. So much so. Geralt brought the bottle of mandrake hooch to his lips, and Regis pretended to be thinking as he watched the bob of Geralt's throat. Regis wasn't blind, knew even before his near-death experience that he was not comely. That wasn't the design of his human disguise. People remembered beautiful faces, but they forgot the old and the plain. It was about discretion. 

Now, though, he felt hyper-aware of himself in a way he hadn't since his youth. His skin looked sallow and thin, his body brittle. Geralt complained about his new wrinkles and scars, but he was still so beautiful. Even more so, perhaps, because he looked at ease. He caught Regis up on his life: the Wild Hunt defeated, Cirilla saved and on the Path like she had dreamed. He curled in on himself when he spoke of Vesemir's death, and the breaking of his last wish. To see a man so noble to be shrunk so small, it made him ache. His fingers itched to reach out, to comfort, but he was a coward. He always had been. 

And then the moment passed, and Geralt was smiling, telling a story of Dandelion being a successful business owner. He had a beautiful woman, and had only whined a little when Geralt mentioned his crow's feet. Geralt's own crinkled as he laughed. 

Regis ran his tongue along the lip of the bottle as he drank from it, trying to catch a taste of the witcher. 

\--

He should be focusing, the situation demanded Regis' full attention. Dettlaff was in danger, and Geralt was under orders to find him, to do the impossible and kill a higher vampire. The clock was ticking, but Regis kept getting distracted by the scent of Geralt's skin. He was explaining how to make a resonance potion, knowing full well the hell he would have to put himself through. He neglected to tell Geralt. The witcher would refuse, and the situation was much too dire to squabble with him about _ethical_ _suffering_. Regis considered it a tuppence in comparison to all Dettlaff had sacrificed to give his fool-hearted self yet another chance.

But as Geralt undid the tie holding his hair and combed through it with his fingers, Regis felt the words catch in his throat. He smelled  _ divine. _ Even though the hair was greased and in need of a wash, it was ambrosia to him. He felt such a rush to  _ claim, _ to possess Geralt as his and not let him go, that he faltered. 

"Uh, Regis? Is that all?" His voice was a little amused at what he assumed to be a simple moment of being lost in thought. Regis felt shame flare in his gut. The witcher was not his, could not be his. He cleared his throat, biding time to center himself.

"Yes, I believe so. The saliva of a spotted wight, of which my ravens found amidst a mess of spoons. I'm sure it will be an interesting time." He folded his arms behind his back, each hand gripping the forearm of the other. A restraint against reaching out, touching Geralt and burying his face into that great, broad chest like he wanted. 

"Right, couldn't be hard to miss,  _ if _ your birds know what they're talking about. I'll be off then, I'll try to break the supposed curse if I can, but you'll have your spit either way." He nodded to Regis before turning to leave the crypt he was calling home. Regis wasn't ready for him to leave, even though time was short. The words flew from his mouth before he could stop them.

"A moment! The lake by here is lovely for a bath, especially in the warmth of the season. Why don't you wash up and I'll give you a trim? For old time's sake?" 

He could have bit off his traitorous tongue. The offer sounded desperate, like someone trying to convince a casual lover to stay after the lovemaking was over. Only, his object of affection didn't desire him even that much. He was about to recant the offer when Geralt's face broke into a grin. 

"Really? My hair has been getting long, but all the barbers here keep trying to give me a tiny mustache when I go in for a trim." He perked up even more, "I have spare clothes in my saddlebag. Let me be quick while you set up." He looked positively giddy at the prospect of a good trim, as many men who lived the nomadic life were. 

Regis couldn't help the fond smile that crossed his face, but internally he was kicking himself. This was too much temptation for him, being so close to Geralt when he was already struggling to control his desire. But, he had offered the service, and how could he rescind when Geralt looked so joyful? 

"Yes, go take care of yourself, and I'll be ready once you come back." Regis barely kept the strain out of his voice. 

Geralt seemed unaware of his conflict, the digging of Regis' fingertips into his arms, and left.

\--

It had been a while since Regis had given anyone a proper trim. Dettlaff, with his form as wild as his nature, had been a mess when he'd first come to consciousness; hair snarled and whiskers in uneven patches along his cheeks. It would be almost three years before he was able to have the fine motor skills to cut it himself, but he was overcome with satisfaction when he was finally able. 

The act of caring for someone in this way was something he loathed in his younger years, but now he savored. And in the year Dettlaff had been missing, Regis had no one. It was a void within him, he knew Dettlaff was pained by the wisps of emotion that slipped through his clamp on their bond. It felt like the edges of a wound--stinging and raw in its pain. 

Regis blinked himself out of those thoughts, staring down at the shaving cream he was lathering in a bowl. It was a terrible idea to allow himself the luxury of even a small respite with Geralt while Dettlaff was out there, hurting in some way so severely he was going against his virtue. His shoulders slumped, shame burdening him as he realized he picked his  _ obsession _ with the witcher over his blood brother. 

The squeaking hinges of the crypt door alerted him to Geralt's return. He could hear, faintly, the bare footfalls hitting the flagstone. He was wearing only a towel, hanging low on his hips with his clean clothes folded over one arm, and his dirty ones balled up under the other. He walked behind Regis to dump both loads by his pack. He stood and cast an igni, lighting the spare candles Regis had laid out, his back to the vampire.

Standing there, Regis could feel his want seeping from him like a fevered sweat. His eyes followed the path of a water droplet as it traveled down his muscled back, dodging scars until it was soaked into the towel at the swell of his backside. He could smell the simple lye of Geralt's soap, the man too practical to splurge on something as costly as fancy toiletries. But under it, even after a thorough cleaning was his natural musk, and Regis was overcome with longing. It had been ages since he had a partner, not since he had last been to Toussaint. And to have the object of his reluctant affections in front of him, so bare and open, was almost more than he could stand.

Geralt turned, having felt Regis' boring into him. 

"Regis," He left his name hanging in the air, not quite a question. 

The vampire  _ tsked _ in what he hoped was a light-hearted way.

"You picked a style that requires much more upkeep than you have been giving it, friend." He quipped, nodding to the tufty sides of Geralt's head where the shave had grown awkward and long, already drying from his bath. 

Geralt gave a broad smile and ran a hand through the back of it. 

"That's why I had to jump on your offer. The duchess was close to holding me down and shearing me herself." He pulled over a chair with one hand and set it down next to the oak bench where Regis' clippers were laid out. 

Regis draped another towel over his shoulders as he sat down. 

"It's a good thing you have me, then. Can't let her sink her claws into you." _Any more_ _ than she already has,  _ he thought with some bitterness. He didn't like Anna Henrietta as a rule, she was haughty and spoiled. In her quest for vengeance, she had inadvertently pitted his two greatest companions against each other and well, he felt entitled to some pettiness. 

Geralt merely hummed as Regis ran his hands through his damp hair. Regis swallowed, throat dry as he indulgently scraped his nails through the shorter sides, listening as Geralt's hum became a deep rumble in his chest. 

"Feels nice," he murmured, voice husky. Regis had to resist pulling his hand away too quickly. It felt too private, to hear Geralt that way, to see his shoulders unbunched and the gentle slope of his neck free of stress. He was fighting with himself almost physically, trying to suppress the way his cock twitched in his trousers. With shaky hands, he picked up his comb and scissors and set to work trimming the snowy locks. 

They passed the time in silence. Regis was thankful, as he didn't trust himself to be able to stuff the guilt and desire welling within him  _ and _ hold a friendly conversation.

And that was the point, wasn't it? Geralt was his  _ friend _ , his closest one save for the influence of his blood bond with Dettlaff. Regis had worked hard to earn his trust, and wanted to honor it. Yet now all he could think about were ways to possess Geralt in his entirety, and it was a violation of that trust. He felt like the predator he had so painstakingly worked to separate himself from as he took his straight razor to the unruly hairs at the man's nape.

After he had given the undercut a clean line up, he went to fetch his short-bladed scissors and shaving cream. 

Regis had thought he enjoyed the witcher clean-shaven, as he had been when they traveled together. He had a face that was beautiful in its strangeness, and it should be displayed in its entirety. Since seeing him with whiskers, Regis had acquiesced. Geralt seemed more comfortable, somehow. Maybe it was the new thickness to his body, and the way that his clothes weren't worn thin that complimented the beard. It meant he was more taken care of now, not the same lean wolf who had stumbled upon him in a grave years ago.

His foot brushed against something as he walked behind the table, and he looked down to see he'd accidentally stepped into Geralt's clothing. It appeared to be his dirty laundry at least, and not the clean, folded pile next to it. The toe of his boot was covered by Geralt's undershirt, simple and dark grey. The action of stepping into the pile kicked up Geralt's scent, strong with his sweat and his eyes nearly fluttered. 

In an action he most likely would be ashamed of for decades to come, Regis kicked the worn shirt under the table and behind a stack of books he'd salvaged from another crypt. He then turned with his tools in hand and walked in front of Geralt, the chill of what he did sinking in. Only the fear of Geralt noticing he was stashing his dirty laundry away kept the vampire from going back and fishing it out from under the table. 

His nerves were electrified, and rounding the front of Geralt did not help. The witcher looked up at him, gold eyes half-lidded, gaze slow and lazy like a satisfied cat. He leaned back in his chair so Regis could trim his face, and he looked every bit like an elegant oil painting. Regis was still becoming aware of how deep he was in this, this craving he had for the witcher. With his feet planted firmly on the ground, knees apart and pulling taut the fabric of the towel, Regis could see the outline of his soft cock as it pressed innocently against the fabric. The lines of his body were drawn long by the stretch of his neck, and Regis' eyes couldn't find one spot on the man that didn't ignite fire within him.

The sound of his scissors cutting through the silver-white whiskers had a trancing effect, and Regis focused on it rather than the slow beating of Geralt's heart. It nearly matched his own as he willed it steady. He trimmed close, blade over comb to keep it even and full in the right places. Their breaths mingled together, sending little hairs scattering and made Geralt's nose twitch. Carefully attending to the man's mustache, Regis tried not to focus on Geralt's lips, what they might feel like pressed onto his. What they looked like when his face was slack with pleasure--pleasure that Regis would give him if he asked. 

This was maddening, he thought. Regis was barely able to focus on the task at hand without lapsing into waxing poetic about the man in front of him. He was reminded of his early days of sobriety, feeling the call of something he wanted so terribly his body shook with need. Anyone would be attracted to Geralt, he thought, as he applied shaving cream to the man's neck; he had even seen people lust after the witcher on numerous occasions. 

He heard Geralt take a breath through his nose, and his own breathing paused. He hummed, pleased by something. 

"What do you use in this shaving cream? It smells delicious." He seemed to be relaxed further by the aroma, his eyes closing. "Like cider almost, or cinnamon and citrus."

The shaving cream smelled nothing of the sort, it was plain as could be so as not to irritate his own sensitive sense of smell. But Regis knew the scent--had become increasingly familiar with it since he and Geralt had been reunited. 

It was the smell of his own lust. 

No one, witcher or otherwise, came close enough to higher vampires to be able to study something as intimate as the  _ scent of their pheromones  _ and live to tell about it. For another vampire, it would be painfully obvious that Regis was aroused. The scent of it heavy in the air would, ideally, be appealing to a mate. But the witcher had no reference, and that made his comment all burn hotter in Regis' stomach. 

"It, ah, it's just a simple extract. Nothing fancy, I'm afraid." If he hadn't spent centuries refining his--still quite flappable--composure, he was sure he would have bit clear through his tongue at the realization. Now, all he could do was try to get through it.

"Would you make some for me? After all of this is over? Wouldn't mind smelling like this all the time. 'S better than horse, at least."

That innocuous comment sent lightning straight down his spine, to the tips of his toes. Regis was never a possessive man, had never fallen into the typical trap of his instincts that made him want to mark things as his. But Geralt, who unknowingly asked to smell of Regis' own arousal because it  _ pleased him?  _ Regis had to suppress a groan before it could escape. Gods, what a thought, to have his witcher smelling of him wherever he went, no one would know, but  _ he  _ would know. He wanted, so deeply and overwhelmingly that his mouth went dry. He put down the bowl and picked up his razor, hands aching to  _ touch _ in a much different way as he braced one on Geralt's shoulder and dragged the blade down the stubble on his neck. 

"Perhaps, when this is over." He croaked out.

  
  


\--

Regis held out for not more than ten minutes after the witcher had left before diving under the table for the pilfered shirt. After the vicious battle with his instinctual drive to claim Geralt, his restraint was tapped and he was in need of comfort. Regis’ mind was fixated on the image of Geralt stretched in front of him in the chair like the most elegant whore, completely unaware of what he did to the vampire. How it would be so easy for Regis to reach out and take what he wanted. He was wild, thoughts jumping between lust and shame, some horrid mix of the two. 

The shirt, worn from years of being rubbed between Geralt’s skin and his armor, was soft in his hands, cooled from the stone floor of the crypt. Stroking it for a moment, Regis hoped the thin fabric between his fingers might ground him. 

He still didn't understand why he had such a strong pull toward the witcher, what it was about Geralt that possessed Regis to feel almost animalistic in his desires. Geralt was intelligent, and empathic, and more brave than he would ever admit to being, but that was not the whole of it. There was something more, almost as if there was a current under Geralt’s skin that made Regis need to touch--to dig in and not let go. 

Lost in thought, Regis didn't notice as he brought the shirt to his face, rubbing his cheek along it like a cat. Burying his face in the material, Regis was surrounded by Geralt's scent and that alone made his lower belly flash with near unbearable heat. Gripping his cock through his trousers with his free hand, a ragged groan tore out of Regis, nearly making him jump in surprise. How long had he been this aroused? It felt like an age. A more purposeful squeeze and he groaned again, mouth hanging open as he was wrapped up in the pleasure of it. 

Shame washed over Regis at the sound of his own desperate cries. He had tried so hard, worked so carefully to respect the boundaries of his friendship, and yet here he was falling to the temptation of his own hand. Still, he could no more stop the rutting of his hips into the pressure of his palm than he could stem the tide of unbidden emotions that welled up each time he saw Geralt. At least, he soothed himself, this way Geralt would never know. He could use this outlet and keep the facsimile of a kind, doting friend going just a little longer. In fact, the lecherous voice in his head began, if he didn’t allow himself this, then Geralt would  _ definitely _ find out about his secret. Yes, this was the better option, Regis decided. His prick pulsed under his hand again. 

Regis couldn't undo the ties on his breaches fast enough, slicing them with one nail in his haste. The first touch of his hand against his sensitive prick made him shiver. He had been aching for so long, yet trying to ignore it, and he had no patience left. He stroked long and firm along his shaft, foreskin teasing his head as it was engulfed and was pulled back again and again. The sensation was divine, his body flushed with heat and the muscles in his thighs shook, wanting to thrust as deep into the tight clutch of his hand as possible. 

Geralt’s shirt was becoming damp and warm with Regis' breath as he panted into it. But he didn't care, in fact, it only served to bring new scents to the surface--the delicious musk of Geralt that he would give  _ anything _ to sample first hand. His pace stuttered as he imagined it, if he had climbed onto Geralt's lap, only his trousers and the thin towel separating the two of them. Geralt, in this dream, would desire him just as severely, already hard and pressing up into Regis. He would finally do what he'd wanted for so long, to kiss Geralt with all the passion he'd been holding back. Would Geralt let Regis explore his mouth, whimpering and holding on to him as if Regis would be the one to leave? Regis’ balls drew up in anticipation as he began to thrust erratically into his fist, too far gone to be embarrassed about the speed at which his end was approaching.

The more animalistic side of his brain supplied the image of rutting with the witcher, taking both their cocks in hand and fucking against him, their precome mixing together, blending their scents. In any other state, Regis would have been horrified, instead he moaned, long and low at the thought. He could almost feel the heat of Geralt’s body under his, and he  _ wanted. _ If Geralt wanted to smell like him, he would get what he wished for. Regis would come against him, would smear his spend into Geralt's stomach until the scent of him was in the man's very pores. Geralt would finally be  _ his. _

Regis was so lost in his fantasy that his orgasm took him by surprise. With a punched-out noise Regis came, spurting onto the stone floor without a care for the mess. He stroked himself through it, stripping his prick of the last few drops of spend as he began to soften. 

Gasping, Regis sagged hard against the wall, sense slowly trickling back into his mind. Relief fast gave way to mortification. He was depraved in the most vile sense, he knew better than to feed his desires like this, knew how quickly they could get out of hand. Regis tucked himself back into his pants and sighed at the cut laces. In frustration he balled up the shirt, the representation of his senseless lust, and went to throw it away from himself, growling. 

Only it stayed put in his hand. His fingers were caged around the fabric, unwilling to let go. Regis sighed again, eyes stinging with unshed tears, feeling defeated by his own lack of will. He walked over to the bed and sat, stuffing the sinful shirt under his pillow. He turned and grabbed his journal, meaning to write out his feelings about the situation. Instead, all that came out was:

_ I strive to live like a person, and it means that I have ceased to feel good among people as well as among my own. Maybe I made a big mistake. _

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please tell me what you think. Kudos and comments keep me going!


End file.
